Green Rooms Must Go Green!

Graffiti. From the early cave drawings to public bathrooms hasn’t changed much. It’s basically a proclamation. “I WAS HERE.” The Comedy Club Green Room is no different.

The Green Room, (Which is very seldom green) is a place where artist can collect their thoughts before bravely stepping onto the stage. A tough task in the Green Room of the Atlanta Punchline.

As I look around the room, I see a few famous names. John Witherspoon, George Lopez, Joe Rogan, John Fox. Oh look, there’s John Fox’s name again on the opposite wall, just in case I didn’t see it the first time …or maybe he was here twice?

Why are all the names that are written the largest, the ones you don’t recognize? (That sounded very Andy Rooney)

There are a lot of proclamations on this wall.

I AM GOD

BILL HICKS IS GOD

I’M THE YOUNG EDDIE MURPHY (I thought there already was one of those)

A lot of the comics seem to have an oral fixation.

I SUCK

YOU SUCK

YOU’RE GOING TO SUCK

THEY SUCK

NO, YOU SUCK. DON’T BLAME THE AUDIENCE.

Some comics use the wall as a battle ground. Read this exchange between two comics.

MY FIRST WEEK AT THE PUNCHLINE AND THE AUDIENCE SUCKS

NO, IT’S YOUR LAST WEEK ‘CAUSE YOU SUCK

OH, AREN’T WE THE FUNNY LITTLE OPEN MIC FAG

AND AREN’T WE THE UNFUNNY BITTER LITTLE FEATURE ACT FAG?

I assume this conversation took place over the span of several appearances.

Sometimes the graffiti is helpful.

POT’S YOUR FRIEND

GOD BLESS SCRAMBLED PORN

QUIT TRYING TO BE HICKS

WHY DON’T YOU USE SOME OF THIS CREATIVITY ON STAGE YOU HACKS!

signed Anonymous Real Comic

Then someone wrote under that,

CO-MIDDLE WITH NO BALLS

I remember being in one club where Phylis Diller came into the Green Room, observed the mess of scribbling on the walls and demanded the room be painted. The club owner lamented the loss of all that club history but I cheered! ALL GREEN ROOMS MUST GO GREEN! I can’t stand looking at all that juvenile, egotistical crap! It’s an assault on my moment of zen.

Hey! I’m not without sin. I’ve signed a few walls and drawn a few pictures, but in the end I’ve realized it’s all futile. Leaving my mark on a tableau of plaster and paint only to find out years later that the club has been unceremoniously torn down to make way for a bank? (Rascals, W.O.) Today’s Green Room could be tomorrow’s Olive Garden. Let the archaeologists sort it out. The mark I leave behind is my life, and in time, that to will fade.